


Little Fly

by malignantParadigm



Series: Marked [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ancestor-Era, Bloodplay, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mutilation, Size Kink, Xeno, toture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 14:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malignantParadigm/pseuds/malignantParadigm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a miraculous time right now. Motherfucking miraculous</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Fly

It was a miraculous time right now. Motherfucking miraculous.

Blood flew in so many directions as the subjugglators waded into the crowd of fighting lowblood fucking scum, strifing to their motherfucking content. That was where he was, covered in the colours of his slain foes. Mother fucking miraculous.

The blood mixed beautifully across the skulls on his waist and the one on his face. It was running along his forehead and into his eyes, covering him. He would make a masterpiece after this.

Thank the mirthful messiahs for letting the chains holding the prisoners break. He didn’t know how they had, but he was motherfucking thankful. It had been a while since he had cracked some motherfucking skulls. 

~~

The Summoner gave a gigantic wave of his arm, and the three highbloods he had speared through, slid off the end of his lance and slammed against a wall with a splatter of blue and purple. His eyes darted from left to right amidst the chaos. Bobbing and moving slightly to avoid hitting anything with his horns. The raid was going according to plan, he had broken the prisoners of war free from their oppressive masters, and soon he would be out of this dingy, monstrous hive, and in the air once more. He didn't do well with enclosed spaces, but this was an important task, and he would not fail.

He darted through the crowd as quickly as his bulky horns and giant, even when folded, wings would allow, ramming into and spearing highbloods as he went, helping frantic prisoners and pointing them in the direction of the wall he had destroyed, the path to freedom.

He heard a monstrous laugh and turned. It was him. The Grand Highblood. The Summoner's hand clenched around the handle of his weapon.

The Highblood bellowed out a laugh as he turned a pair of fleeing brownbloods into a fucking shitstain on his club. The force had turned him around, the bloodlust was getting to him, and he opened his motherfucking arms wide to it and let it flow through him like the fucking gift it was.

The prisoners seemed to be running to one side, out by a doorway. He glared at the hole, and took a step towards it, smashing the face of any troll close enough to him. Suddenly, his eyes fixed on something hovering slighting above the rest of the fucking lowbloods.

A troll with gossamer wings seemed to be herding the others out. Wings. You didn’t see that every day. That made him motherfucking special. The troll they were attached to had wide, wide horns. It was Young, around 11 or 12 sweeps, not that it mattered. Even if it was a shitblood, it looked healthy enough that it could have received a decent standing in his court, perhaps as a higher ranking slave. 

Too bad he was on the wrong motherfucking side. 

It gave him a shit look and he gripped his clubs tightly and grinned viciously. He was going to fucking enjoy this.

Once the Summoner realized the Highblood had spotted him, he steeled himself, eyes narrowing. With one great heave he rose off the ground, flying as high as the ceiling would permit, knocking down a circle of surrounding trolls with a huge whoosh of air.

“Grand Highblood. Your reign of evil and, wickedness ends. Here, tonight!” He raised a muscled arm and pointed his lance. “I will see your cruelty repaid, and by my hand, if I must.”

He watched the troll with the wide horns push himself as far as he could go. Those wings were fucking glorious. They pushed those around him to the ground. His grin only widened as the lance was lowered at him. Like that was going to even motherfucking hurt him. Heh. The fucking thing was cute when it opened its little mouth.

He decided to oblige it with a response, not that it fucking deserved the words coming from his mouth. 

“You’re going to have to kill me shitblood. Do you think you can?” He laughed.

He grabbed the nearest troll, a rustblood, and snapped its little frail neck just by closing his fingers around its throat, nearly popped the damn head off. Definitely popped the thing’s eyes. 

He tossed it at the winged troll instead of dropping it, on a whim. Maybe he could make it angry.

The Summoner caught the body in surprise, holding it to himself with one arm. He couldn't bear to look at the blood covered, eyeless face. But he whispered an apology to the corpse before dropping it to the ground and steeling himself.

After a moment he charged at the Highblood, an animalistic war cry in his throat. Several blue and purple bloods tried to intercept him but he was focused on just one goal and easily tossed them aside with his arm and lance and the wind of his wings. He reached the Highblood with his lance extended, charging straight for his blood-pumper.

The Highblood only bellowed out a laugh as the troll descended on him, lance outstretched. His brothers and sisters tried to intervene, and even if the shitblood hadn’t pushed them aside, he would have motherfucking culled them for getting in the motherfucking way.

It aimed its lance at his chest, what a motherfucking riot. He let the thing get close, then dodged, leading the lance into the space between his arm and torso, allowing the natural slope of the weapon to slide through, bringing the winged Troll close.

He had dropped his club during this, he didn't know how that had motherfucking happened, not that it mattered. He could crush its fucking chest with just his hands.

The summoner felt the awful sensation of falling as his lance slipped easily through the Highblood’s grasp, and he was pulled inward. He hit the Highblood’s chest with a thump that almost knocked the wind out of him, for a moment he was in stasis, inhaling a sick, warm smell of blood and sweat and greasepaint, before he beat his wings once hard, and managed to leapfrog over the Highblood, as he was in midair he gave an enormous heave on his lance, sending it shooting from under the Highblood’s arm. Of course this meant it would clatter to the floor and he would be unarmed. But he was still by no means defenceless.

The Grand Highblood sucked in air as he felt the shitblood slam into him. It had been a while since someone had touched him, unless they were dead. It was a novel sensation, the gentle brush of wings only added to it. The kid was light, lighter than anyone he had met before, except maybe something younger than 5 sweeps.

It did an amazing flip over him, and he followed it with his face. It was really fit. Didn’t even fucking seem scared of him. He hadn’t smelled any fear, at least. Usually it was an odd mixture of the most fucking beautiful thing he had smelt and the foulest thing ever unearthed by a wriggler, but there was none. 

He would have to try harder.

He turned around, letting the chucklevoodoos sing, aiming the mass of fear at his single opponent, ignoring the lowbloods scurrying around him.

The Summoner just managed to spin in midair and face his opponent once more, before it hit him. 

A sudden shock like lightning to a horn, the crunch of broken bones, flesh slashed against the rocks of a Cliffside, the pained moan of a dying lusus, the screeches of a thousand culling drones...

It was all around him, and inside him, his chest clamped tight around the wave of terror and choked him. He faltered, wavering, dropping from flight slightly as his wings beat erratically. He was only kept in air because his terror had triggered such power spasms in his wings. He stared up into the face of The Grand Highblood, feeling afraid of him for the first time. His face seemed monstrous, his form gigantic, he was huge, unnatural, immortal, merciless.

But...but he was just a troll. He was a troll and he could be killed, could be beaten. He was not a monster, however monstrous he may be. The summoner swallowed and stilled his shaking, his breathing slowing.

His fear. It was so motherfucking delicious. He drank in the sight. It’s chest heaving, its wings stuttering. The widening of its eyes, the tears he could see at the corners... He wanted more. More. More. MORE.

When the thing quieted down, slowed its breathing and got itself under control, he couldn’t motherfucking believe it. It wasn’t afraid of him. No. No. It was, but it was fighting it. Motherfucking FIGHTING it. Tooth and nail and claw. It was fighting his chucklevoodoos. And it was winning. Motherfucking miraculous.

“I am not afraid, not of you.” the Troll said quietly.

The rest of the place could have been empty for all the Highblood cared, his eyes were on the Troll and his ears were tuned only to its words. ‘ I am not afraid, not of you.’ Not afraid of me?

What are you afraid of little fly? What can I do to make you cringe?

He took steps towards his chosen opponent, unspiked clubs falling into his hands. He wanted to know the answer to the question. 

OH he wanted to know.

The Summoner's eyes narrowed as his words only made the Highblood grin wider, and crueller. Pushing down the poisonous fear that spread through his veins once more, he pulled a second lance from his modus and spun it, he was too close to the Highblood to charge, but he could still parry, he could still fight even at this range. He slashed at the Highblood with the tip of his lance. Dancing around him in the air, avoiding his blows then striking out at him with everything he had. Slashing his lance, butting with his horns, even slashing with his claws when he had a chance. The gradually quieting din around them faded out. Summoner was only vaguely aware that most of the prisoners had either escaped, or been slaughtered, and the highbloods had similarly chased after the prisoners out into the night or had faced their own deaths at the hands of their so called “lessers.”

The Summoner only had eyes for the beast in front of him. His mind still flashed with nightmares at every glance from the Highblood, but on he fought.

The lowblood was still scared. He could see it in his eyes. Peeking here and there, at the corners and in the set of his little mouth. His movements would stutter sometimes, like he had been frozen. But still, he fought like he was possessed by one of the motherfucking mirthful messiahs themselves.

He was fucking beautiful. Each forceful stab or parry, would bring him close and then far. The swipe of his claws was delicious. He even let him score on his right forearm once. The sting and the sight of his blood was so motherfucking sweet. The look of brief triumph on his young face was even sweeter.

He knew that the living bodies had emptied. There were corpses around everywhere though, their blood mixing together in a glorious unpainted mural. He wanted to add the winged brownbloods’ to this majesty.

When he went to try to gouge him with his horns again, he dropped one club, and gripped the horn, bringing him close

The fight was intense, the Highblood was strong, and impossibly fast for any troll, let alone one of his size. The Summoner was almost out of breath and started to sweat when the Highblood suddenly dropped one club and grabbed his horn, stopping him in mid movement as easily as if he'd weighed nothing at all. He twisted in the highblood’s grasp as he was pulled close, too close. 

His wings struggled not to give out under the tilt caused by the hand on his horn, he stared up into the wild, painted face. Still just a troll, he's still just a troll, he fought to remind himself. He didn't know how long whatever mind-games the Highblood had played on him would last...maybe it had faded already and what he was feeling was actual fear, either way he forced himself to stare steadily, and unblinking into the shining indigo eyes now so close to his.

The clown chuckled and Summoner felt hot breath wash over his face, the sweet, deathly stench and heat was sickening, the hand on his horn making the distance feel disgustingly intimate. It was this terrifying sensation that caused the Summoner to still in his fighting more than any other.

The Grand Highblood laughed in the Troll’s face. It was still trying, so desperately HARD, to fight the fear he knew was growing in its tight little belly and the exhaustion decorating its movements like fucking lights. He hadn’t let his ‘voodoos slack off even for a second. Its strength was so... appetising.

Even if it was futile.

It had started to thrash in his grip, it would get away at this point, and he had just caught it. He shifted slightly and slammed it towards the ground, allowing his own massive weight to help him bring the smaller, so, so much smaller, body to the ground. 

He covered its body with his own. It ended up resting half on a green blood, its head resting in the crook of an armpit. He dropped his other club and brought it to the thing’s throat, letting his fingers trace lightly at the oh so vulnerable throat as he used his other to keep its head arched back and pinned.

“Are you scared now little one..?”

The Summoner sucked in a painful breath. One of his wings had bent under him painfully, spraining. He had dropped his lance when he'd been slammed onto the floor. It probably laid somewhere off to his left, out of reach, but he couldn't turn his head to see. Even if the Highblood hadn't been keeping his head in place, his horns wouldn't have let him face anywhere but straight ahead, straight into the face that hovered above him. Like a descending spectre of death. The painted skull cracked over skin flushing indigo. He resisted the urge to swallow; he did not like the look in the Highblood’s eyes. It seemed to go beyond simple bloodlust.

He glared up at his captor, gritting his teeth.

“Perhaps I am afraid, but, not in the way you want. You want to have, have control, over me. But I am not your puppet, or your... your prey.” He replied. His own words helping to build his confidence momentarily. Even if the weight on top of him pressed down against his chest heavier still.

He laughed again in its face, making sure he was close, hovering just out of motherfucking REACH. He let his breath waft over the form under him. He smelled so sweet. Young, and innocent and courageous. Oh, so courageous. He could FEEL him trying to bolster himself, despite being pinned like a motherfucking fly.

“Heh heh heh.” He let his fingers on the one horn trail where hardness met soft, delighting himself in the shiver it caused the prone form under him.

“Oh, you ARE my prey little fly. You ARE. And such sweet prey, too.” He let the hand at the boy’s throat trail down, over his chest. He stopped over the sign briefly, a Taurus. Was that what it was called? It didn’t matter. He shredded through it.

The blood welled up, dark and so dirtily brown. He brought his dirtied claws up to his face and licked them clean. Never once taking his eyes form the pair below him, delighting in the motherfucking FLINCH of the other.

Summoner gasped as his the front of his shirt was ripped to pieces, his chest stinging as filthy nails sliced him carelessly, and cold air washed over the wound. The pain knocked him out of his stupor though. He did not intend to be a sitting quackbeast, waiting on the machinations of this psychopathic murderer. He brought his knee up as hard as he could into the Highbloods stomach and thrashed wildly, slashing at his face with his claws.

The Highblood bent over in surprise when the shitblood managed to get a score on his face, sending him back slightly, one hand to his injury. He watched as it wasted no time in getting up. Its wings straightened behind it, a mixture of blood dripping from its gossamer edges, landing on the floor. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought that the mirthful messiahs had paid him a visit.

He grinned viciously. It was so strong. It must be exhausted by now. His little Fly would take SO much energy...

There was only one question now.

Could he break it. Make it bend and beg.

He got to his knees, picking up one of his fallen clubs, and readied himself.

In the back of his mind, he questioned if he even wanted it broken.

The Summoner grabbed both his discarded lances from the ground, never once taking his eyes from the Highblood. His wings shook and extended to their full span, blood splattering off the edges.

Expression drawn, the fear in his chest at bay. The Summoner readied both spears and watched, waiting for the right moment. 

Then, in a flash he charged, thrusting each lance in an unexpected direction. One towards the Highbloods neck, the other his side.

Oh he was so motherfucking beautiful. Coming at him like that, like THAT, would fucking kill him. It was so pitiable. He moved fast, faster then that brownblooded fucker could counter.

He dropped his club, wouldn’t motherfucking need it, and slapped the lance aimed to his side aside and ducked under the other, letting it harmlessly go through his hair, even if it did hit against his horns a bit, this ended up with his head being smashed up in the lowblood’s chest, but that was fine. He got a good scent of the other, and their blood mixed. So motherfucking beautiful. 

He wrapped his arms around the other, leaving the other the use of his hands, but taking away his space. He inhaled deeply. Blood, sweat and power, motherfucking power. 

His fingers grazed where gossamer met skin. It was one of the most motherfucking nice things he had ever felt. So motherfucking soft and stiff at the same time. Oh how easy it would be to tear those off. He let his fingers grace the skin instead though, imagining the brown trailing down taut muscles....

The lances slipped slightly in the Summoners grip when he was crushed against the Highblood, a fresh wave of fear laced with things he didn't even want to name, hatred among them, flashed through him when he heard, and felt, the Highblood inhaling his scent, breathing in so purposefully and contentedly. He was stunned again into stillness when the Highblood's arm wrapped tight around him, not crushingly but instead almost... Tenderly. The Summoner’s eyes widened. Icy realization crashing down on him. He felt a hand sweep gently against the root of his wings and he gasped, his body jerking traitorously, his lances crashing to the floor.

“W-what are you, doing,” He stuttered, his face full of sick smelling, straw like tendrils hair. “Stop it!”

He delighted in those struggles, those delicious struggles. He lazily licked a line along where he had gouged the chest. The blood was so deliciously rich and thick, the taste dancing on his tongue, tingling.

He held him tighter, and nuzzled into the warm body he was holding. So warm. He took another breath and another lick, and tightened his grip on the other, warningly tracing at the wing bed. 

“No. You are mine.”

His other hand traveled along the other’s back, down towards his ass.

“You may not fear me, though I can change that. Yes. I can change that. “

The hand drifted lower, gripping the thigh and running his thumb along the heat between the others thighs, dragging the claw along the clothed nook.

“But you won’t be dying today, little Fly. Oh no...”

“Oh, oh god...” The Summoner's throat welled up with disgust as he felt the claw at his nook, even as his body continued to twitch with every graze, every tug of his wing. The Highbloods arms were so tight around him he couldn't move at all, except for his arms. Why had he dropped his lances? Stupid, stupid...not that they had done him any good so far. 

But he wasn't going to just lie down and...no. He pushed the stream of images from his mind and in desperation grabbed the Highblood’s horns, pulling them in opposite directions hard, praying to the Signless it would make the Highblood lose focus.

The Highblood howled at the feeling of his horns being pushed apart. The chucklevoodoos stopped and his claws dug in into the soft flesh under his hands. Tearing one wing slightly and piercing through clothing and scraping and bruising the thigh.

He tossed the other away, snarl on his lips. One hand went to go check his horns, the other he used to help him kneel, doubled over.

He looked at the winged troll from under his wild hair.

He was going to pay for that.

A scream died on the Summoner’s lips as the pain of his wing being torn was cut off by the pain of crashing heavily on to the blood covered floor. He refused to give into his pain however, and miraculously, his fear seemed to fade as he staggered quickly to his feet. 

Ignoring his lances, the Summoner turned and made a dash for the exit. His horns bumped the wall and his run was clumsy from exhaustion. He could feel a trickle of blood down his back, as well as one on his inner thigh, to match the one on his chest. But he forced himself to push up off the ground anyway, his injured wings helping him pick up speed. He could see the twin moons hanging ahead. As soon as he got to open sky he'd be free, safe.

Almost there, almost....

His fly was running. He was done fighting it seemed. And he was done playing around. Motherfucking DONE. He launched himself forwards with a roar, staring on all fours but quickly and smoothly going to two.

The winged troll wasn’t far in front. He was trying to reach outside, using his wings, even though one was bleeding. If he made it to the open space. He would be gone.

That couldn’t happen. Couldn’t motherfucking happen.

He pushed himself harder, heavy strides crushing and snapping bones of bodies beneath him. He reached one hand out, he was so close. So motherfucking close.

The door was looming closer and he did the only thing he could think of as the other Troll’s feet started to lift off. He tackled it, wrapping his arms around its waist, he brought it to the ground, snarling. The wings beat against his face and he snarled and snapped at one of those delicate, beautiful things and tore.

He was going to make it, he was going to be free. With a running leap the Summoner took off, then suddenly, pain.

He screamed, a weight landing around his gut, crushing him, pulling him down onto the wet, moonlit grass. His eyes were shut tight but he knew what had happened, he'd been caught, tackled, by that sick, twisted monster. And now...

His wings were strong, much stronger than they looked, strong enough for him to have fought for years with them at his back without suffering anything worse than sprains and the most minor cuts and tears. But the Highblood was also strong, and he felt the subjugglator's teeth rip a hole in his already wounded wing as easily as if it had been made of paper. 

He coughed into the dirt, feeling tears well at his eyes. He blinked them away furiously. The Highblood was stronger than him, a lot stronger. The warm body on his back felt like weight of death. He searched out with his mind for the help of any nearby beasts, but it seemed that even creatures besides trolls were careful not to build their homes or do their hunting too close to the hive of such a madman. He was completely alone.

The wing crumpled like paper under the Highblood’s teeth, the delicate looking veins snapping and cracking. It tasted like blood dust and paper. He tore his face back, the top part of one arching wing came off with him, tossed into the air where it blew in the wind, flipping over itself before it landed.

The broken thing was beautiful. He would have to collect it later. He wanted to keep it. He used his chest to keep the little flier pinned and grabbed his hands, bringing them together under its wings.

Wrapping one hand around the thing wrists, he angled his elbow so it pinned him by the middle of his back. “Do you think you can still fly little one?”

Summoner choked back a sob, shaking all over. Pain sharpened his senses and planted stars behind his eyes. His captured hand grazed the spot on his back where the upper half of a wing should be and instead felt nothing but strands of over-sensitive tissue and terror filled him. Not terror of the Grand Highblood, though he definitely deserved it, but terror at the thought...he might never fly again. Never feel the wind on his face and in his...his wings, never race through rain still trapped in the cloud, not yet fallen...never command an army of beasts, who had seen his wings as a sign of hope, a blessing, a call to fight...

He clenched his fists in the grass. Breathing in the scent just to smell anything besides the troll that invaded every one of his senses with noxious, overpowering hatred. He had never felt so black. He wanted to forgive, the Sufferer would have forgiven...He was not the Sufferer. He was the Summoner.

So, he summoned all of his hate, and courage, and pride.

“It, it doesn't matter, what you do to me...” He hissed through clenched teeth. Eyes welling. “I will still fly...you cannot, make me yours.” He spat the word 'yours' remembering the claims the Highblood had made so recently. The threats taking on new, terrible meaning in hindsight.

The Highblood didn’t even narrow his eyes at the brave statement.

He stared at the troll under him, he could hear the tears in its voice. The tremors of its body under him. The way the blood flowed like little veins over his skin. Being brave until the last it seemed. Not caring how his body fucking trembled, the bloody ends of his wing-bed twitching. How delicious. 

How pitiable. 

He let his free hand trail up the lowblood’s back, trailing through the liquid. There was still some blood dripping from his arm. He used both his and the other’s blood to draw his sign on the trolls back.

“But you are already mine. You just don’t motherfucking know it yet.“ His hand moved up and wrapped in the other’s short hair, yanking it back, and brought his face close to the other and gave it one long lick. Motherfucking delicious.

The Summoner ground his teeth, and forced down his nausea. His face was cold where the Highblood had left a slick stripe of spit. His scalp was now stinging, though not nearly as bad as his back.

“You're sick, and twisted, and...and I wont...” He voice faded slightly. The suddenly he was bucking his legs and squirming violent, trying to free his arms.

He grinned over the wiggling body under him. It felt so good. How long had it been since he had a little body underneath him? Oh, so long ago.

He was trying so hard to get away, even when his voice cracked at the words. Heh. He let go of the boy’s hair, and trailed his hands down his back, and wrapped his hand around the base of the wings he had left and let go of the hands and lifted his elbow.

Would he tear his own wings off to get away he wondered.

The Summoner stilled, fresh horror dawning as he realized the decision he was being forced to make. He could possibly attempt an escape now, the weight was off his back, but if he did a second wing would likely be torn off. Knowing how fast the Highblood was made him realize... there was no chance of escape without his wings. He didn't even know if he could fly with half of one missing but there was still a chance...

Either way, He couldn't escape. Not now, not yet. A smart troll would wait for the perfect opportunity, a beak in the Highblood's focus, but that would mean giving in for the moment.

The summoner swallowed, hating the feel of that large hand wrapped around the base of his wing. Hating everything.

“Just, what... what do you want from me?”

The Highblood watched the other still under his hand as he leaned back. He tilted his head slightly. He thought he had made it motherfucking obvious what he had wanted from the little fly. Maybe it was still in fucking denial. How cute.

He trailed one hand down the troll’s back, idly playing with the bleeding wing stub. It was motherfucking sweet the way it flinched away from his hand, and the way the body under him tensed.

“I would like your name first, I can’t be calling you fucking shitblood. Unless you like feeling like the worthless trash you are.”

Just the idea of giving this fucking monster his name, of hearing it said in his dark, violent voice made him feel ill. Still, something about giving a fake name, of abandoning his own identity in his darkest hour didn't sit right with him. He was not ashamed of the indignities and pain he had suffered for his cause this far, and no matter what happened...tonight would be no exception.

“...I am the Summoner. I am the commander, of the beast armies.” He muttered into the grass “Vanquisher of... evil and corruption.” He did not let his voice waver though he shivered as his wounded back was stroked.

“And you are, the Grand Highblood. I am surprised, I would not have thought...” he tailed off. Would he REALLY not have believed this behaviour out of the head of the subjugglators? A sect of trolls so vile their heinous acts had spawned a mythology of hatred and rebellion in an entire army of troll citizens? Perhaps he had been foolish. Yes, he had definitely been that. But he would not falter. He would not fail his cause in weakness...

“Summoner...” He let the name roll on his tongue, tasting it. He liked that name. It sounded strong, like its owner, but also so fucking pitiable and weak. Like it needing motherfucking reinforcements to help it. 

They obviously weren’t motherfucking helping now.

He brought the hand he was trailing down its back and set it next to the other’s face, under its horn. He used it to support his weight as he leaned over, resting his cheek on the horn, breathing in the scent of its hair.

“Wouldn’t have thought what Summoner? That I was cruel?”

He chuckled and tore the wing off. He still needed to pay for the mark on his face.

The Summoner screamed, his voice echoing into the empty night. The tears that had been gathering in his eyes finally broke through and began streaming down his face. Perhaps there were more nerves in that particular wing, perhaps that pain had been compacted by the other suffering he had endured so far tonight, but it was worse the second time...so, so much worse.

Fresh blood ran in rivulets down the other side of his back. His remaining, mismatched wings spasmed subtly, the Summoner barely felt he could control them any more. Any hope of flying again was gone, without balance in his wings, nor the power of at least a complete one, there was no way they would support him. His claws dug into the rich dirt, his only solace was the fact that from this position, he could no longer see the face of his tormentor.

For possibly the first time in his life, he was ashamed of himself. He was ashamed because he hated the Troll on his back, hated him in a way he could not reconcile. There was a sickness in his heart that he knew and recognized despite the pain the realization caused him...he was calignous for this monster. And he hated himself for it.

The Highblood watched those translucent brown tears leak down the Summoner’s face. He leaned a bit more so he could lick them. Motherfucking delicious.

He raised himself slightly as he looked at the ruined mess on the Summoner’s back. There was just enough room to carve something there. He grinned, it looked like the perfect place for his sign...

But now was not the motherfucking time. His bloodlust was being replaced with something completely motherfucking different, but the others were coming back, dragging injured and recaptured trolls behind them. He was going to claim his little missmatched fly, but not out in the motherfucking open like this.

He struck the trembling form beneath him, knocking him the fuck out. It was easy to sling the body over his shoulder. He grabbed the two torn wings from the ground. Heh, together they made a whole one.

~~~

It had been a long night of getting all his fucking shit in order. The interrogation of the surviving prisoners had shown that the Summoner, his precious little fly, was the culprit. How delicious. But he had to make certain and verify it first.

He sat across from where he had the Summoner chained from the ceiling. He was just hanging there, shirtless, the Highblood had cut it from him earlier. The remaining wings on his back were drooping. The two he had pulled off were pinned to the wall behind the Summoner, placed so it looked like they might have still been fucking his.

He couldn’t wait until the little thing woke up.

The Summoner was flying, through a storm. Everything ached. Rain crashed against his face and wind whipped his wings and he was completely and miserably alone. His beast army had abandoned him, seeing him for a failure of a leader. But he must persevere, for the sake of his mission...what was his mission again? It was...something about...something about freeing a man trapped under a glass case.

Suddenly he was struck with lightning, and simultaneously, with consciousness. Unforgiving and cold consciousness. He blinked his eyes, the room around him swimming into focus. The first thing he was aware of was the overwhelming ache that invaded his entire body. His back was on fire, itching in a way that could only mean impending infection. His arms...they were chained to the ceiling, and judging by the strain he felt in his muscles, had been for some time. He was cold, his shirt and symbol had been removed...

By the Highblood. The Summoner narrowed his eyes, the large troll's form coming into focus. He was in a dark room, the walls painted with thick splashes of blood, and the Highblood was seated before him, in a gilded, dark throne. Watching him. The Summoner stiffened.

“Where...where am I?” He muttered, he wasn't sure why he bothered. He knew he would not like the answer, whatever it was. His throat felt dry.

He chuckled as he watched the pathetic little thing come into consciousness, bit by bit. Groaning and wings twitching.

It was glaring at him now, and he took a moment to just take in the motherfucking sight. He ignored the question as he stood up, approaching the chained little fly.

He used one hand to hold its face, running a hand along his cheek, like a proper matesprit might have. With the other he reached for a glass that had been sitting behind him on a table, filled with faygo.

He brought it to his lips, taking a sip. “Would you like a drink little fly?”

Summoner flinched away from the touch. Keeping his lips firmly closed. He didn't care how thirsty he was. He wasn't drinking anything the Highblood offered him. Though he supposed, to go to the trouble of chaining him up, only to poison him now, wouldn’t make much sense.

It didn't matter though. He still wouldn’t accept anything from this sick bastard. He kept his narrowed eyes trained on the Highblood and his lip curled in a snarl as he leaned away from the cup.

The Highblood grinned viciously at the thing. He would be defiant to the end. How precious. “You sure? Last offer.” He drained it after a moment, not expecting those lips to move. 

He let his hand trail down the Summoner’s face, down his throat, where he gripped it slightly. He placed the empty cup back on the stand. He pulled him slightly towards him and bent his head back, so he could stare down at him fucking properly. “Did you set those fucking shitbloods free?”

The summoner glared back squarely, unblinkingly. The Highbloods large, ferocious visage filled his sight line, but he had steeled himself. He would not give up the Suffererists, he would not betray his friends. If this was what must happen, so be it, he was prepared to shoulder the blame and face the consequences. For the good of the revolution.

“Yes.” He said simply.

The Highblood bared his fangs in mirth and gave the Summoner’s face a light, open hand slap. 

“Good. That checks out with what the others motherfucking said as I tore them apart.”

He let go and walked around his prize, footsteps heavy on the ground, the sound echoing in the empty room. 

“Who sent you on this mission? I can make it motherfucking easy on you. If you just fucking answer. I can also make it motherfucking painful.” He didn’t need to question him, he had beaten the information out of a few others. But the lowblood’s body was so tense, as if he was preparing himself for on onslaught. Why should he disappoint this pitiable little fly?

He let one hand graze over the broken wing stubs on its back. He would have to clean those. After he was done. The Summoner shuddered at the touch but kept his voice firm and quiet.

“I think, you'll likely make it painful for me, either way.” He muttered. It was miraculous (though the word felt strange in his think-pan, for some reason) how his fear was so overpowered by his hate. Even his pain had taken a secondary position to the churning loathing in his gut. “So really when it, comes down to it... for all you care I acted alone...”

This little thing was cheeky, how fucking brave of it. He was tempted to use the chucklevoodoos again, but decided not to. 

He dug a claw in purposefully where he had torn out the wing at the root. 

“It was too motherfucking obvious that this took more than just you to plan this. Why would you fucking let a bunch of useless lowbloods free for no reason? I want to know who else is in your little group.” He brought the now bloodied finger to his mouth as he moved to the front of the lowblood and licked it clean in front of him.

The Summoner bowed his head, shoulders clenching. Through gritted teeth he muttered.

“I have no group. My allegiance is to the hoofbeasts, and the wingbeasts, and the scuttlecreatures...my loyalty is to the poor and maligned.” He tried to temper his breathing though it was growing heavy with the ache in his body and the strain of the chains that held him.

“That, is why I freed your prisoners, that, and that alone.” In a way he supposed this was true. To help suffering innocents is why he joined the Sufferer's cause.

The Highblood circled his prey again, watching every move that it made. The tense of its muscles and the sag of its head. He pushed the horns up when he went past, ducking only a little when the head didn’t turn enough. The horns were somewhat annoying, but they were cute. It probably made it a bitch to get through doors though. He grinned.

“Only beasts and those made to be culled. That is a motherfucking stupid thing to risk your life for little fly.” 

He went around its back again, and stopped, grabbing a hold of the torso with one giant hand. It covered a good portion of its side, it was so small, he was careful not to dig his claws in, at least not yet, though he did graze them just slightly. He traced the damaged wing beds.

“We killed and captured them all you know. WAS IT MOTHERFUCKING WORTH IT?”

The Summoner could not stop the look of sadness and horror that crossed his face. Though his head was still bowed. The weight of his horns pulling him down. He closed his eyes. He couldn't believe anything this vile troll told him. Though a part of him knew it was very possible none of the prisoners had escaped, even with the underground transit of Sufferists they'd set in place in the woods nearby. They wouldn’t have stuck around forever. They certainly weren't there when he'd tried to escape...was it earlier that day? Last night? Yesterday? Who knew, in this dark room...

“Per...Perhaps not. But, failure is to be, expected, when one is attempting to rewrite, the order of the world...” He said quietly.

He laughed and looked at the mess that was the Summoner’s’ back. “So you are a part of a group. The Sufferists or some shit weren’t they called? After that motherfucking pathetic excuse of a troll I tore apart? The ones who want to change the world. He screamed beautifully. You know, right over there?” He grabbed the lowblood’s chin, directing it to a spot on the wall behind his throne. “That’s his blood. It was such a motherfucking miraculous colour. I hope he manages to get a descendant. I want more of it to paint on my walls.”

There was so much blood caked on his fly’s back. It would not do. He moved to grab a bowl of water and a cloth from the same table as the waterglass and as gently as he could, started to wash away the blood, as lovely as it was. More was going to be spilt.

The Summoner knew the stories. He knew of the Highblood mostly through the tale of the Sufferer's death and sure enough, the blood on that section of wall looked Red, an unnatural red. He couldn't help but stare at it, even after the large hand on his chin had been removed. He had seen the sacrificial stone on which the Sufferer was tortured and killed, but this seemed different somehow, more real. Fresh hatred boiled inside him as he realized this monster had known more of the Sufferer than he ever would. He had not even been hatched yet when the Sufferer died. The Highblood must be many sweeps old, of course...most highbloods usually were. 

His numbing hands clenched above him as he heard the splash of water, then felt the warmth of it on his back. He slumped, trying to curl away from the touch, which was soothing in a way it had no right to be. At the same time, the gentleness of the gesture stung in a way even the plucking of his wings had not.

“What are you doing? Why would you...?” He asked. Before trailing off, realizing this probably meant the Grand Highblood intended to keep him around for a while. His muscles tightened. 

“I am not your pet...” He all but whispered. Speaking more to himself. It did not reassure him.

The Highblood stopped, re-wetted the cloth and started again. “No. You are not my pet. Though if you lowbloods lived longer, I might have made you one.“ He tilted his head behind the summoner. His back was almost clean now. What a motherfucking nice place to put his sign, in between those mismatched wings. It would look better with both his wings there. He let a hand graze over the stumps. Maybe he would look into getting them to grow back. Later though.

A knife dropped from his captchalogue into his empty hand as he placed the water bowl down on the ground. He lent in close, wrapping his free arm around the tiny, tiny body in front of him, holding it still, and set the point of his blade to skin. “Regardless. You are motherfucking mine.”

He began to carve.

The Summoner made a sharp hiss at the first unexpected slice of the blade. In his mind sang a litany of curses, but all he made was the occasional tiny groan or intake of breath. The blade was cutting deep enough that every time it ghosted along his spine he feared it would be severed, and he'd be left paralyzed. But that didn't seem to be the Highblood's intention. 

After an agonizing minute, where he felt every twist and turn of the knife, he realized the Highblood was carving his insignia. And it was deep enough that it'd definitely scar, be a pale brown line on his flesh forever. He bit his lip. Sharp teeth breaking the skin.

It didn't matter. Next to the loss of his wings...his indignity at being claimed like this, was nothing. That's what he told himself.

The Highblood was careful, so careful. He didn’t want to permanently harm his little fly. At least not in a way that was debilitating. It looked beautiful, the brown blood running from arching curves of his sign, so beautiful. He took a hand and covered it in the other’s blood.

He went to his chair, where there were only 3 bloody handprints, one of them bright red, all made by his own wide hand. He was going to place it on the armrest, with the others. He looked back at the form hanging there, shivering with its wings drooping and head hanging. Looking rather defeated. He felt a twinge of pity in his stomach. He then placed the hand print on the back of the chair, on the right side, behind where his blood-pumper would rest, though the fly may not realise it. 

“So I can remember you when you go, little Summoner...” 

He went back, collected the bowl from the ground, and began to clean the wound, wiping off the blood. A salve landed in his palm when he called it forward, and he applied the burning solution to the cuts, cleaning and sealing them, leaving an even more pronounced scar.

“When you go” sounded ominous. But in the haze of pain that was his current existence, the Summoner barely noticed. But he noticed when the stinging salve was applied to his back, crying out through his teeth. Trying to breathe through the pain. He licked his bitten lips.

“...I, I supposed you think I should feel, honoured by this? Don't you?” He coughed. “I don't remember hearing about, the Grand Highblood marking, many, of his victims...”

“I don’t make a motherfucking point of it. Most are motherfucking annoying to keep around. You are going to motherfucking stay around as long as I can motherfucking make you last though. You are fucking interesting. Even if you are a shitblood.”

The wound was scarring up before his eyes, how beautiful. The rides of it sealing and raising..

He eyed the other troll’s hands, but decided he wanted them to stay there. At least for the first time. It would make things easier in the long run for him. He closed in behind the troll, arms wrapping around its waist. He licked the blood from its back, the slave burning deliciously on his tongue.

His hands drifted towards the other troll’s pants.

The Summoner bent further forward in a vain attempt to get away as the Highblood leaned into him, lapping at the wounds on his back like they were something delicious. He only realized the compromising position he had put himself in when he felt gigantic hands move down his body and rest at the cloth on his hips. He tried to straighten up in shock, but was kept mostly in place by the chest against his back and the arms around his torso.

“D-don't.” He stuttered. A threat which, to the Summoner’s horror, sounded more like begging.

He marvelled at all the movements his little fly was making. Motherfucking all of them. His blood was delicious too. Motherfucking sweet and spicy. He licked his lips, though he frowned at the almost begging the other was doing.

He was stronger than that. He had been piteously strong despite facing him and the full blast of his chucklevoodoos. Oh, this would not motherfucking do. Not fucking do at all. He stopped, idly playing with the material in his hands. What could he do to get that defiant spark back. He liked that. That fire.

“How did you get those chains to break little one? We had to cull the blues that were overlooking them because they couldn’t give a cause.”

The Summoner let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding in. And gave a weak, humourless laugh.

“What does it matter? I am not one, to let chains stop me.” He replied. “...despite the irony in my current situation.” He paused. “You killed bluebloods, for information about me, a, what was it...'pathetic shitblood'?” He smiled slightly, voice darkening, thick with rage and sick satisfaction.

He smiled savagely at the anger lacing the words, and their smug satisfaction. Oh yes. “They were culled because they weren’t doing their fucking job, and let a motherfucking shitblood like you mess up everything.”

He raised his head higher, inhaling the scent. He still smelt like dirt and power, the best motherfucking power. He brought his lips to the back of the other’s neck, giving a quick kiss and a quick, harmless nip.

“I am motherfucking pleased that their pathetic attention span allowed me to capture YOU though.”

A chill spread through the Summoner and settled like lead in his gut. The mouth at his neck distracted him enough that his reply wasn't immediate.

“...It is my own hubris, which put me here. Nothing more. The Sufferer would say that, I called this to myself, for a reason...It had nothing to do with you.” It made him feel stronger, to say it out loud, rather than simply repeat the platitudes inside his own mind. “Your power over me, is temporary. Just like all things are...”

“No. For you lowbloods, things never last very motherfucking long.” He seemed almost wistful as he said this. It reminded him, he shouldn't waste any more fucking time.

He kissed along the other’s neck and onto his bare shoulder, the little nips turning into shallow bites. He just tasted so delicious.

His hands moved back up, tracing the taut muscles before slipping into the front of the Summoner’s pants. Claw tips traced the line of his hip bones and the lines of his groin, which had grown tight at his actions.

The Summoner curled further in on himself at the invasion. Shoulders and posture hunching. Head and hips moving vainly forward, craning to get away from each new bite and touch.

As tired, miserable and abused as he was, he still felt his bulge lengthen at the Highblood's ministrations, he was sure it was the fault of the insecurity the Highbloods mercurial actions kept instilling in him. The worst, most terrifying part about the Highblood was how unpredictable he was. Cruel to unimaginable extremes, and in the next moment gentle, almost pitying. Summoner felt no pity, however, and even with his eyes shut tight, there was no way to remove himself from this, no mistaking the Highblood's huge, rough hands for the soft, slender ones of Mindfang, his matesprit. The only Troll he had had any concupiscent experience with...

The very thought of her made him feel guilty, as though he was betraying her. Which was insane. Even if he had wanted any part in this debauchery (never had he wanted anything less, he was certain) there was no room for hatred in his feelings for Spinnerette. Just as there was nothing red about his feelings for the troll licking and biting at his back. He tried to force those disastrous thoughts from his mind, gasping a little when The Highblood bit high on his neck, close to his ear.

The Highblood felt his bulge begin to take interest with every movement and noise the little brownblood made. How motherfucking delicious. He really was something. Fighting even now. He wondered if his little fly was trying to fight what his body was feeling. 

He let his hands drift, resting on the Summoners thighs, thumbs rubbing at the side of the bony sheath containing his bulge. He stopped lapping at the abused neck and raised his head, resting his chin lightly on the other’s horn and looking down, pulling the waist of the pants as far as he could to get a look. The brown tip of the bulge was just peaking out, wriggling.

He was fighting a losing battle. He let a thumb go and graze the tip, watching the other for a reaction.

The bulge stirred at the attention, sliding further out and growing thicker with blood. The Summoner opened his eyes and then wished he hadn't, the sight of his bulge traitorously reaching out towards the Highblood's touch was somehow worse than simply feeling it. In a desperate bid to distract himself He tilted his head back...he should have shut his eyes first. 

The Highblood leered above him, his wild, hungry smile inches from his face. He clenched his eyes tight again but it was too late. The sight was burned into his mind. He felt so small all of a sudden, trapped in a cocoon made of skin and cloth, heady smelling, and impossibly tight. His hands and wing-beds twitched, his breathing shallow as his bulge tried to tangle itself in the Highblood's thick, blood stained fingers.

He laughed as the other closed his eyes, clenching his teeth. He was so deliciously warm. So motherfucking warm. He nuzzled into the side of the Summoner’s head, smearing his paint onto both hair and skin, but that was motherfucking okay. Lowbloods were always warm he found. The few highbloods he had filled a pail with were always cool. 

He enjoyed the sensation of those wings stuttering against his chest, and let out a purr, though it may have been a rumble. The other’s budge curled around his thumb, heat pulsing from it. He grinned down at it, rubbing it with both his fingers before removing them from the pants and grabbing the hem. 

He pulled them down slowly, enjoying the sight of more of that gray skin being available. He went down with the pants, and sat there, crouching, though even crouching, he still was up to the lowblood’s midsection. He let his hands run down the others legs, taking note of scars and marks. How motherfucking marvellous.

The air felt cold on his bare legs, and the Summoner shivered. Though, for an indigo-blood, the Grand Highblood was warmer than he should have been. His hands trailed down the Summoner’s legs softly, almost reverently. Now that he had had moved, Summoner thought it might be safe to open his eyes. He stared up at the chains and shackles that kept his hands in place. Perhaps, while the Highblood was distracted... His felt the edge of the shackles with his thumbs, testing for weak spots.

It was difficult to focus, and to stay quiet. His bulge was almost fully unsheathed. Appearing to enjoy the hands trailing down his legs and the warm breath on his back. And occasionally a quiet, traitorous sigh would escape him.

The Highblood rumbled at the soft sigh and the feel of those marvellous legs, all pure muscle and power. He licked along the others side, lightly dragging his teeth. He wrapped one arm around those thighs, and lifted, turning him slightly towards his face. His breath ghosted over the others bulge. It squirmed more and he chuckled.

He let his tongue trail out, dragging a line towards the unsheathed, wiggling bulge, twining his tongue around it. It tasted sweet and salty. He let his teeth scrape against the bony sheath, enjoying the taste and feel. So delicious. He closed his eyes, and just enjoyed the touch and taste and that motherfucking overpowering smell of arousal.

The shock the Summoner had felt at being lifted so easily changed to sudden, horrible pleasure as the Highblood's long, wet tongue wrapped around his bulge. His hands stopped searching for kinks in the cuffs and wrapped around the chain holding him, squeezing tightly for support, though he didn't need it, the Highblood held him tight enough to carry his weight completely. His head lolled forward, eyelids lowering but not closing completely. Through his eyelashes and the mane of hair below he watched The Highblood wrap his mouth greedily around him. The sight making his stomach do back flips and his blood-pumper push even more heat and pressure into his groin. His hips bucked involuntarily forward, and he snarled low in his throat, angry with himself.

He loved playing with bulges, always so eager and so responsive. The little thing curled around his tongue, trying to go farther, into his mouth, like it was a nook. He chuckled as he pulled back and shifted the summoner, settling the smaller body on his shoulder, balancing him in the crook of his neck. He used his other hand to spread the other’s leg aside.

He let his hand travel up. Claws delicately touching at the Summoners nook. It was wet. Soaking wet, the brown fluid glistened on his fingers as he brought them back. They disappeared into his mouth, so delicious. He had such a motherfucking good flavour.

Small noises kept finding their way out of Summoner. Culminating in a shudder when his bare nook was touched. His thighs tightened on the Highbloods shoulders, his heels rubbing against the large trolls' back. 

In the few times he had pailed with Spinneret, she had never touched him like this, never had anyone stimulated that part of him... other than himself. And he hated to admit it, even in the privacy of his own mind, but it felt good. Really good. The pleasure he felt in his lower half contrasted strangely against the agony he felt in his back, neck and aching arms. It was too much. Too much sensation, too much confusion.

“Ungh...” He mumbled frustrated. His hands tightened, his eyebrows knitted together.

The Highblood chuckled at the other’s reaction, feeling his bulge pulse and throb at the sound of the other on his shoulder. So motherfucking delicious. 

He shifted the Summoner, so one leg was sitting on either shoulder, spreading him wide. One hand drifted to his back, steadying him, the other went back to the Summoner’s bulge, twining his fingers around it, forming what could be interpreted as a nook with his hand and letting it wander. 

He used his mouth and tongue to explore the nook in front of his face. It was tight, he thought, did his little fly ever have a chance to fill a pail with another? He chuckled, imagining that he would be the first one to have this motherfucking miraculous nook.

“Fff-fuuh...” Summoner half swore quietly. Squirming where he sat, arching his back slightly to press further into the Highblood. A big part of his thinkpan was still screaming at him. Run, get away, get as far as you can.

“I...I can't...” He thought out loud, his voice barely audible from the tension and stress on his body and mind. He pressed himself further towards the Highblood's mouth. The dual stimulation of the hand on his bulge and the slick tongue searching deeper into his nook was too intense.

The Highblood looked at the motherfucking miraculous sight above him. The lowblood was straining and panting above him. The legs trying to squeeze him closer every second. His scent was filling his nose, and driving him crazy. His own bulge was unsheathed and wriggling in his pants, looking for the nook he was motherfucking tasting.

He took the words of the Summoner above him as an admission on how he was not going to last. He let the legs fall from his shoulders and got up, licking his lips. He grabbed the other’s head and gave him a teeth-gnashing kiss, probably splitting both of their fucking lips open, but the thought of their blood mixing only made it motherfucking sweeter. He let the head fall and walked over to behind his throne, grabbing the bucket he had stored there, and brought it over, placing it underneath both of them.

Summoner groaned, in disappointment or relief, when the Highblood removed his hands and mouth and stood up. The kiss was the blackest thing that had happened between them yet and he’d latched onto it, kissing back with violent fever, looking for some semblance of normality in this fucked up situation. When the Highblood left, then reappeared with a bucket, Summoner swallowed and let his eyes drop to the floor. There wasn't anything he could do at this point. He might as well just let it happen, get it over with...and hope the Highblood didn't decide to kill him afterwards...

He grabbed those miraculously long and muscular legs, letting his hands run over them, massaging slightly, being careful of his claws. 

He positioned them both around his hips, one arm circled around the Summoner’s ass, tipping him up and forwards onto him, taking all of the weight. With the other he pulled down his own pants, releasing his wiggling indigo bulge. He let it go explore the other’s, watching the two dance and twine together.

The Summoner let his legs be lifted and wrapped around the giant’s waist, he noticed with trepidation, that the Highblood was giant in every sense of the word. He was pretty sure the huge, writhing indigo bulge wouldn't fit inside him...not comfortably at least, and not without pain. Thankfully the Highblood only leaned forward and let their mismatched bulges entwine. They searched and explored each other like they had minds of their own. He gasped and pulled himself up higher with the chain. His ankles locking around the Highblood’s back. He tried to turn his face into the crook on his shoulder as far as his head would turn.

The Highblood growled in pleasure as he watched their two bulges danced. He dwarfed him so completely. Though everyone was small compared to him.

His hand drifted up and grabbed the other by the back of his hair, moving his head to the side so he had access to the other’s neck, which he lavished with attention. Biting and nipping and sucking to his content. Along his neck and his motherfucking shoulder. He was so delicious, he couldn’t get enough of him, and he did want more.

He shifted the Summoner, raising him up and disentangling their wriggling bulges. He brought the hand that had been guiding the others head back down, and used it to position his bulge, which wriggled and shifted, seeking the nook and wriggling into the tight, wet heat. He threw his neck back and groaned at the sensation as he moved deeper, keeping his hips still and just reveling in the sensations.

The Summoner bit down on his already bloody lips to keep from crying out. It burned, he had never had anything more than a finger inside his nook and the Highblood was a lot, lot bigger than that. Even the tip felt like it was splitting him in two. Suddenly all the endorphins and pleasure he had been feeling fell away and all the pain came swimming back. He tried to push himself away, forgetting to relax. His nook clamped down tight as more of the Highblood's bulge crawled up inside him,

“F-fuck.” He swore. He almost never swore. “Fuck, it’s... too much...” He panted. Sweat dripped from his forehead and slid down his bare chest.

The Highblood felt the other tense and groaned in his throat, but resisted the urge to move. He remembered his first time, distantly, with one older than him and much larger. He should motherfucking slow down, so he didn’t hurt him, at least, not THERE, he wanted him to motherfucking like it.

And he tried, tried to slow down, for him, and did a damn motherfucking good job if you asked him. Letting his bulge just slowly explore that deliciously tight nook. He must really not have filled a bucket with anyone THAT way yet. How fucking delicious, he was the fly’s first.

He let forth another rumbling purr, and buried his face in the other’s neck, continuing to suck and lick, following the tangents and the bones when he could find them. Along his motherfucking jaw and collar. So goddamn warm. His supporting hand started to rub circles where it could, trying to calm the other down

The Summoner was about to try something desperate, something, anything to escape and stop what was happening to him, because oh god it was so painful, when...

Oh.

The Highblood had bitten that spot by his ear again, he relaxed for a split second and even more of the bulge filled him. But it, didn't hurt...not like it had before. It still burned but, it seemed relaxing made a big difference. He was going to have to make a decision, should he give in, sacrifice his remaining pride and make things easier on himself? His bulge pulsed, and he took his mind off everything else and focused only on relaxing, on the warmth of the tongue on his neck (never mind who's tongue it was), and the wet squirming inside him.

He let his arms go slack and his posture relax and suddenly, the adrenaline came rushing back, removing the pain and leaving no room for him to focus on anything but the hot, increasingly pleasurable stretch of his nook, wrapping around the Highblood, pulling him further in. With an impatient noise he let his body take over, the screaming in his head finally silenced with the first thrust of his hips pushing back against the Highblood’s.

The Highblood groaned, throwing his head back as the other started to thrust against him. By the mirthful Messiahs, it felt so fucking good. Both of his hands drifted to the other’s hips with a bruising grip. He started to rock into the other, a deep growl staring at his throat and reverberating throughout his body.

So motherfucking delicious. He licked his lips and sought the other’s face. It was so motherfucking good. He bit at the other, trying to bring some fight back to him, even if it was just biting his lips. He needed his blood to motherfucking flow, or the fly’s blood. Didn’t really fucking matter right now. He groaned as his bulge tightened. He wasn’t going to motherfucking last much longer. Not fucking long at all. One of his hands drifted down, tangling his fingers in the Summoner’s own ignored bulge.

Pale brown tears were falling down his face now, mingling with his sweat. Whether from the pain, the pleasure, fear, humiliation or all of the above the Summoner didn't care, didn't even think about it. Just rutted mindlessly against the Highblood, thighs tightening their grip as his hips were grabbed, large fingers leaving bruises on his skin. When the Highblood kissed him and bit at his lips he kissed back, drawing blood wherever he could. Snarling little vicious things under his breath. 

He wished he had his hands free, he wanted to carve his claws down the Highblood's back, mark him like he himself had been marked. Make him bleed, make him come, make him pay. He didn't know anymore.

He was close, his bulge was heavy, and thick, squirming manically against and around the high-blood’s fingers. His feet and hands were numb.

He wrenched his mouth away and with a low, bestial growl, brought it back again. Biting and licking down the highbloods jaw and chin, breaking the skin at his neck as he clamped his legs as tight as he could. Pressing them flush together, his filled nook leaking to match that which was beading on the tip of his bulge.

The Highblood HOWLED at the feeling of the feeling of his neck being bitten and the skin being torn. His fly was so fucking tight. He thrusted several more times before he stilled, too far gone in his lust to pull out and finish them both off into the bucket.

Thank the messiahs he had left the bucket under them. His legs tightened and strained as he came. Loud plunking sounds of his genetic material filling the pail, and probably splashing around it, marking the floor. Not that he gave a motherfucking shit. His hand tightened around the other’s bulge and he buried his teeth in the other’s shoulder. So mother fucking good.

The Summoner screamed as he came, a loud and pained and instinctual sound. It was the simultaneous clamping of teeth at his neck and the feeling of being filled to the brim with the Highblood's genetic material that sent him over the edge. His own material splashed across his and their chests and stomachs, as he felt the Highblood's gush out of him, making a mess. His nook twitched and pulsed, still spasming long after his bulge had stilled. 

He let his head drop onto his chest. His mind was blank, his breathing heavy. His legs unlocked and he let them fell to the ground, splashing in the puddles at their feet, the movement dislodging more material from his nook, which dripped down his shaking legs. They were weak to support him fully, and he had to put a lot of his weight on his arms, which had almost no feeling anymore.

The Highblood crushed the two of them together, ignoring the mess that they both made as they spilled over the pail under them. His hands never released the other, keeping their pelvises together though the joining, the body over him pulsating. How motherfucking sweet was that?

He came down from his high, looking at his partner who had his legs drooping down on the floor. He felt a twinge of pity at the shivering form and shifted those wonderful legs up, moving one hand to support the other’s hips. 

With his free hand he undid the binds that were around the other’s wrists, letting them fall to the side, or onto him, it didn’t really matter. A small doorway on the left side of the room led to the respite blocks. He placed the bundle in his arms in the recuperation. He traced his fingers along the bruised skin as he lay there, in the spoor. 

Even now, used as he was, he still looked so fucking valiant.

The Summoner was fading in and out of consciousness. He was aware of being lifted, carried like a child and laid somewhere, soft and warm. He blinked up at the face of his rapist, or perhaps his kismesis, he wasn't sure about what was really going on here anymore. Everything hurt, but the sopor was soothing, lulling him into sleep. The Highblood’s pitying smile was the last thing he saw before he passed out.

The Highblood ran a finger along the sleeping Summoners cheek. bending down to kiss him almost softly, before pulling away and moving to the doorway.

“Goodnight, little fly.” He whispered with a grin, closing the door. Locking it behind him.

Oh yes, he was keeping this one. Maybe forever.


End file.
